


Siegefic for the_ragnarok_d

by cobweb_diamond



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-20
Updated: 2011-04-20
Packaged: 2017-10-18 10:12:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobweb_diamond/pseuds/cobweb_diamond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames is the governor of a besieged city, and Arthur is a freedom fighter. Due to political pressures Eames can't openly support Arthur's guerilla tactics, but he lets him get away with it anyway because a) it's the only way they can get supplies into the city, and b) he's in love with Arthur. By day, Arthur is a humble pen-pusher for the besieged city's council... but by night he helps Cobb and Mal lead rebel forces in and out of the city! In other words, an overwrought historical-fantasy novel scenario that doesn't really even need to be fanfic since it is so far removed from canon. BUT WHATEVS. It was fun to write.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Siegefic for the_ragnarok_d

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_ragnarok](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/gifts).



The governor's office is only three floors above street level. Unfortunately for Arthur, he hadn't started at street level. His journey had begun in the crypt under Barkside Cathedral, making his way around the guardhouses and across various rooftops until at last he's heaving himself foothold by precarious foothold up the exterior wall of the council chambers.

To Arthur's relief, the window to the governor's office is open. His fingers are shaking from fatigue already and picking a lock is a delicate enough business even when you're _not_ forty feet from the ground and running on three hours of sleep.

Inside, the office is lit by the glowing embers of a fire in the grate. Arthur picks his way around the stacks of books and navigational instruments by the window, careful not to disturb anything. It's difficult to make sense of anything in this mess. His gaze travels over the mounds of paper on the desk, wondering if Eames has _ever_ seen the bottom of his in-tray before deciding that no, no, of course he hasn't. This is Eames. Eames' favoured technique is to steamroller directly over beaurocracy unless he can use it to slow down someone who is pissing him off, at which point he becomes suddenly and uncharacteristically fixated on rules.

Arthur is just about to start looking through Eames' trash-heap of a desk for a candle when he realises that not all of the shapes on said desk are papers. In fact, some of them are _moving_. Eames is _still here_ , sleeping with his face pillowed in his arms. In the half light, Arthur hadn't even noticed him.

He freezes, but it’s too late. Eames is stirring and Arthur has just enough time to panic before Eames fumbles for something beside his chair and comes up with a long, heavy dagger, blinking sleep out of his eyes as he points it at Arthur.

‘What?’ says Arthur, too stunned to manage anything wittier. ‘You keep a sword in your _desk_?’

Eames lowers it. He looks awful, like he hasn’t shaved -- or, possibly, washed -- in a week. ‘You could've been an assassin,’ he accuses, voice still mumbly from sleep.

‘You don’t need to worry about that from your own citizens, Governor,’ says Arthur. ‘Not yet, anyway. And I doubt even you would be able to sleep through a full-scale attack.’ The insult comes automatically but Arthur regrets it at once. Eames has been doing the work of three people since the seige began, and the time for petty jibes is long since gone. It’s just that there a moments when Arthur still can’t quite believe that Eames is responsible for an entire city. Moments like now, for example, when Eames’ hair is squashed flat on one side of his head and he’s brandishing a knife and there are neurotic toothmarks all down the dangling laces of his shirt.

‘Seems like I _should_ be worried, actually,’ says Eames, standing up and going over to prod the fire back into life using the tip of the dagger. ‘What with people breaking into my private office at all hours of the night.’

‘I was here for the guard rosters!’ protests Arthur. It’s a weak lie, but even strong lies seldom stand up to Eames’ scrutiny so it doesn’t matter much either way. ‘I... had an idea about relocation to the Seaward wall.’

‘At three in the morning?’

‘I couldn’t sleep.’ This, at least, is true. Of course, the _reason_ why he’d been unable to sleep had been because he’d been meeting with Cobb in the crypt of Barkside Cathedral to discuss their next supply-run attack. But telling Eames that would strain his already-tenuous claims of plausible deniability.

‘Arthur, my door is locked and you’re wearing an outfit that looks like it came directly from the pages of a cheap novel about cut-purses and cat-burglars. I may be sleep-deprived but credit me with a little intelligence, please.’

Arthur is poised on his toes as if for flight. He's still feeling a little shakey from sneaking around after the guard patrols. What could he possibly do in here, though? Jump out the window?

'So, what now?' says Arthur, hands spread wide: _You got me_. 'You're going to report me? Or just stab me?'

Eames looks at the dagger in his hand like he'd forgotten it was there. The tip is a little blackened from where he'd used it to poke the fire. He puts it down by the coal-scuttle, rubbing a hand over his face. 'No, I'm not going to _report_ you. But really, Arthur, surely there are easier ways of doing this?'

'Of doing what? Looking at the guard rosters?'

Eames sighs. 'Go to bed, Arthur,' he says. 'You look like you need it. God knows I do.'

For a long moment Arthur stands unmoving in the middle of the office, looking at the dark circles under Eames eyes underlit by the red glow of the fireplace. The truth is that he probably could have snuck in here at any time of day, but after the meeting with Cobb he'd been so on-edge and buzzing with contingency plans and low-level paranoia that he'd had to work off the energy somehow. The wall of the governor's tower had presented an interesting challenge. And Eames, he realises, probably knows this already. There had been a time, at one point, when Eames had been pretty damn familiar with Arthur's sleeping habits.

'Fine,' he says at last. 'I'm sorry for waking you,' he adds. He means it, even though he's never been very good at making apologies sound genuine.

'Take the stairs this time,' says Eames, mouth quirking into a smile, and Arthur unrolls his cloak from where he'd had it pinned down by his belt, unfurling it around his shoulders.

He's just about to leave (via the stairs this time, as ordered) when he feels Eames touch his elbow.

'How are we?' asks Eames, softly. There's a brief second when Arthur thinks Eames means "we" as in "him and Eames". Then Arthur realises that it's more like the Royal We: Eames and the only "we" he ever thinks about these days, the city.

'We're fine,' says Arthur, summarising two weeks' worth of planning and preparation and white-knuckled dread and crossbow bolts whirring past his ear in the cold night air. 'For the next few days at least.'

Eames is scanning Arthur's face like he's going to be able to tell something more from his expression, but Arthur just gathers the rest of his cloak around his arms and flips up his hood for the journey out into the streets. 'Do you really want to ask me for details?' he asks, wondering if he'd give them if Eames _did_ ask. He probably would, is the thing.

'No,' says Eames, stepping back. 'No, of course not. But I trust you to tell me if you think something's going to go wrong. If you think I can help.'

He means it. Arthur, on the other hand, has a far more realistic grasp of what the repercussions would be if anyone found out that the governor of the city had been aiding and abetting guerilla tactics.

'If there's anything you need to know, I'll tell you,' Arthur promises, and closes the door silently behind him on his way out.

He doesn't know if Eames makes it to bed that night but when he sees him the next day Eames has shaved and looks marginally less like death, so Arthur likes to think that he's doing something right at least.


End file.
